A Pact Clandestine

""I've seen everything you've done"

On a particularly windy night, the leaves crunching below my boots, a strange occurrence befell me. I had just left the operating room after dealing with a rather squeamish college student. My button-down shirt still stained with splashes of red, untucked and flowing carelessly with the autumn breeze. I was in the middle of my ritual post-ceremonial night walk when a figure approached me. I assumed it was a transient and attempted to go around them, but that was when the form spoke:

"I've been watching you for some time now".

I couldn't respond. I could've sworn that was my father's voice. It was a long day, I thought it was my imagination. At least it seemed that way until he walked toward me.

It was him. As if nothing ever happened.

"What the fuck are you doing here? I watched you bleed like a pig!" I said, the words dropping nervously from my lips, quivering uncontrollably. "I've seen everything you've done" he replied, completely oblivious to my question. It can't be real. "How are you alive", I asked. "I've seen everything you've done" repeating himself. How is this possible. He's purposely fucking with me. I had no choice but to play along with this twisted situation. "And what, might I ask, do you plan on doing about it". "Well, I do owe you one, but I have something more interesting in mind".

"I'm listening".

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We arrived at an old cathedral-style church in an unfamiliar part of town. The stained glass windows somehow shone in the darkness, glittering magnificently in hues blue and purple. Its outer beauty in no way prepared me for the horror it kept inside.

He lead me in, insisting I go in first. I complied against my better judgement. The air was thick with the scent of decomposition. You could feel people had died there, possibly even dying right then, even though there were no bodies in sight. "Sit down, please" he insisted. That place was disgusting, I didn't want to sit, I wanted to burn it to the ground. Fuck him for making me come here. Even in death he's still getting on my fucking nerves. He took his place among the podium, behind him were two giant web-like forms on either side of him.

"Originally, I was going to drive your teeth into your skull, but I have a brilliant idea" he said. "Since you like murder so much-" I interrupted him "I do this planet a service". "Spin the tale anyway you want, if anyone knew what you were doing they would be inclined to disagree. As I was saying; since you love what you do so much, let's make a game out of it". I stared at him puzzled, "Explain."

"Well, we each go about our "business", but we bring back proof of each encounter. The person with the most proof wins." I might have been out of it, but it didn't seem like a bad idea. "What are we doing this for--the hell of it?" "A game wouldn't be a game without a proper end. If you win, I'll disappear forever" he said. "If I lose?" "You belong to me for all eternity." he said, his gaze turning cold in the process.

"What exactly constitutes "proof"?" I asked, as if I completely missed the last statement. "Bodies", he replied. "That's too risky, I'd have law enforcement all over me". "Fine, we'll choose a body part." "Body parts are too bountiful, the temptation to cheat would be overwhelming."

"What do you suggest then, xxxxx?" he said with a dose of contempt for my questioning.

"Hearts."

"Actually, I love the sound of that. It has a certain poetry about it." he replied. "After each encounter, we'll place our hearts on the webs you see behind me. Web #1 is mine, while Web #2 belongs to you. Sound reasonable?"

"Reasonable, no. Doable, yes. I accept."

He moved away from his podium to shake my hand, but I evaded. "No need for theatrics, you have my word. When do we begin?", I said.

"Well, shall we?"

xxxxx = name omitted

Scarlet Roulette

"I'm sure you've realized at this point my "abusive father" story is fictitious. People tend to be more understanding with wrongdoers who've had bad childhoods. My father wasn't terrible--he had his shortcomings as does any human, but nothing that warranted murder. Do not misunderstand me though, everything else I've said has been truthful.

My past is not something you should concern yourself with. Most of it is a giant haze to me. Other than the story I've regaled you with I don't remember much of it. My mom's been gone for years, and I have no recollection of where. There's a gap in my memory; my mind a book with its core full of blank pages.

These pages are red.

Enough with this, I might as well get to the part you are more interested in.

The warehouse gets bigger with every extended period between kills. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe that place is my head. Anyway. The Warehouse became my "operating" room. It seemed my surgeries kept it in check. While those surgeries seemed to help that place, I couldn't help but notice each performance left me emptier and emptier.

The methods became more inhumane. At some point I began to favor usage of hammers against their intended purpose. Smashing teeth, fracturing bones, all the while my victim suffered, fully aware of every single sensation. I'm not a sadist. I drew no pleasure from these acts. I felt as if by some outside power I had to do what I did.

Choosing a patient was as simple as taking a stroll to a public area and tossing a die. I'd find groups of people hanging about, and I'd assign each of them a number: I - VI. If their number came up, they came with me. I bet you're wondering if "good" and "evil factored in at all--it didn't. To be truly fair, I had to make the process random. Good and evil are constructs of religion and the world view of a child. Therefore, they are dead concepts to me.

I'm sick of writing; I'm going to go find some patients."